Naturally, we did not like the job of burning one of his country houses. But as business is business, so in war orders are orders. Half a dozen shells did the work. Flames burst from the house in every direction, and the enemy’s sharp-shooters who had been using it as a vantage ground rapidly retreated across the cotton fields to the woodlands beyond under fire of our guns. Our captain, a great bearded warrior, six feet four inches high, and as rough as men are made in appearance, was suddenly seized with a tender thought. Turning to me, he said: “There may be some poor devil wounded in that house and likely to be roasted. Let’s ride over there and see.” We put spurs to our horses, dashed through the sharp-shooters’ fire, and a few minutes later began exploring the lower quarters of the house, the fire being above. We found nothing till we came to the cellar. There we discovered a little girl, anywhere from two to three years old,--I’m not a good judge of little girls’ ages,--sitting in a little rocking-chair, and singing “Dixie.” The captain grabbed her suddenly and ran to the open air with her, for the volumes of smoke were rapidly penetrating to the cellar. When he got her out, he said: “Who are you?” She replied, in a piping little voice, “I’m _Lulalie_.” Whether this meant that her name was Lula Lee, or Eulalie, or what, we could not make out. “Where is your mamma?” asked the captain. “She’s dead--she died when I was born.” “Where is your papa?” “I don’t know. Those ugly other people took him away. When he saw ’em coming, he took me to the cellar, and told me to stay there so the shellies wouldn’t hit me.” “Where’s your maumey?” (Maumey meaning in South Carolina “negro nurse.”) “I don’t know,” she answered. “Those ugly other people took all the colored folks away.” Just then the battery advanced with its colors flying. Looking up the little girl recognized the Confederate battle banner and said: “That’s _my kind of a flag_. I don’t like that ugly other striped thing.” Manifestly the child was without protectors. We adopted her in the name of the battery. When we returned to the camp several serious questions arose. Jack Hawkins, one of the ex-circus clowns of the battery, suggested that first of all we must secure a chaperone for her. When asked what he meant by that, he said with lordly superiority: “Well, you see, chaperone is French for nurse. We want a nurse for this little child.” “Nonsense,” said Denton, the other ex-circus clown, “you don’t know any more about the proprieties than you do about French. Chaperone means somebody to look after a church, and this little girl isn’t even a chapel. We’ll look after her, and we don’t want no nurse to help.” The captain, with his long beard, was holding the little child in his arms all this time, and she suddenly turned around to him and seizing his beard said: “I like your big whiskers. They are like my papa’s. You don’t bite, because you’ve got hair on your face?”